Bankers' Hours (7 page)

How should I word my answer? It wasn’t as if I didn’t like him. It was the thought of spending time with him outside the bank that made me nervous. I had difficulty controlling my anatomy. What if, while we were chatting, I popped one? His voice
did
wash over me in the way a hot cup of tea does on a snowy January Sunday. It soothed. How could I go out with him for a beer, which I had never drunk, and talk, when I still could not think of him solely as a friend?

“I’m sorry. I do want to have that beer. I was going to text you… but then I didn’t.” It wasn’t a lie. I had punched his numbers in my phone and saved them, I just hadn’t used them.

“Oh. Okay. Well, what are you doing Saturday night?” Tristan asked, tucking his receipts into his wallet.

“I work until noon. Then I’m helping my mother hang some shelves on her wall. It’ll probably take all day, and she offered to make me dinner.”

His lips moved but could not quite make that half smile I was used to. He was disappointed, and I felt bad for allowing it to happen. He was trying, but I had not. “I’m free Sunday,” I offered.

There’s that dangerous smile I
sooo
should not love!

“Okay. Sunday.”

I took out my phone after glancing around for anyone who could fuss at me for texting during work. “Just so there’s no doubt”—I pressed Send—“I sent you a text.”

“You saved my number,” he marveled.

“Of course I did.”

I heard his phone chime. He took it out and smiled. “Thanks. I was convinced you threw it away after I gave it to you at the gym, thinking I was a deranged stalker.”

“Nope. I intended to text. But time slipped away, and here we are on Friday.” Time, and the fact I didn’t know how to be friends with a straight guy who turned me on with his smile. I was so screwed.

“I know how it is. I get very busy myself. Well, I guess I’ll see you on Sunday, since you’ll be working while I’m at the gym.” Did he really sound disappointed, or was that me?

“Yup. Sunday.”

Tristan walked away, and another customer walked up to my window before I had a second to run over our conversation in my head. He had seemed different this time. Happier. I waved off the notion and punched in the account numbers. I couldn’t think about Tristan. It was dangerous to think about Tristan. It was wrong to think about Tristan. He was my friend. I could handle one beer without crying myself to sleep over the irony of finding the perfect guy only for him to be straight. No, I would amend that. All the perfect-looking guys I’d ever met had happened to be straight. The only ones who’d been interested in me were the imperfect ones with more flaws than I had.

Just once, I’d like to find a perfect gay man!

Chapter 4: Wet Dreams, Anticipation, And Completely Blowing The Date That Wasn’t A Date But Was

HE CLIMBED
over my body, sweaty and nervous, separating my thighs with his knee. He pulled my leg up and over one shoulder as he positioned his throbbing cock at my entrance. I felt him waiting, pressing slightly yet not enough to breach. Then suddenly, he thrust hard and filled me with….

My body convulsed as I panted myself awake. I blinked uncomprehendingly as my eyes adjusted to the moonlight streaming in through the bedroom window. I was in my bed. Alone. Tristan wasn’t here. The tingling in my groin alerted me to what had happened, and I slapped myself on the forehead.

“Crap,” I mumbled, reaching down under the covers to confirm. “I just shot my wad.” I lay there a second, but as the moments ticked I became more aware of the wetness in my underwear. “Shit!” I grumbled, throwing the blankets back and storming to the bathroom.

I washed up and changed my underwear, returning to my bed.

“Why can’t I find a nice gay guy to dream about?”

I rolled over and closed my eyes. Going out for a beer with Tristan was a bad idea. I liked him too much. I should probably suggest waiting a week or two so my body could calm down. How could I casually hang out with a guy who was the object of way too many fantasies? He had been the main character in my subconscious for about seven wet dreams thus far, and I’d only met him two weeks ago.

I curled my legs up toward my chest and readjusted my feather pillow as I hugged it. A rebellious tear slipped out of my eye, and I felt it roll over my nose and drop onto my hand where it lay on the pillow. I just knew I was going to screw up the friendship before it started. Tristan would end up hating me. I couldn’t make friends with a guy I lusted over. Sunday was doomed.

SATURDAY PASSED
as any other Saturday when I worked and helped my mother. We’d done plenty of things together on Saturdays because it never interfered with her mah-jongg tournaments on Sundays. I liked mah-jongg and used to take part in the tournaments until Mel had pointed out that no twenty-something guy played mah-jongg with his mother and her friends.

I’d given it up some time before I’d moved out.

SUNDAY MORNING,
while sipping my tea, I got a text from Tristan.

Hey, Grant. I wanted to check in. What time and where do you want to meet? O’Lordans Irish Pub is a nice place. They have good food as well as good beer. You know, in case you want to eat too. We could meet there, or I could pick you up.

Food?
He couldn’t have been asking me to dinner.
Meet there?
I thought about that option, but realized my potential for drunkenness and texted:
Can you pick me up?

I didn’t want to explain that I’d never drunk before. I might sound pathetic. He replied and asked for my address, so I happily gave it over. Not having to drive home after would be a good thing.

SUNDAY EVENING
I stood in front of the mirror trying to figure out what to wear. Every shirt I owned looked like I was going to work. What was the appropriate attire for a pub? “T-shirt and jeans, probably,” I told myself. I owned one pair of jeans and zero T-shirts. I had seven white undershirts, so I figured if I unbuttoned the front of one of my dress shirts and rolled up the sleeves, it could pass for casual. But which color?

I opened my closet and peered down the line of pressed dress shirts organized by color. Mel was right when he said they were very Easter-eggy. Pastel purple, which was technically lavender, baby blue, sage green, butter, salmon, and three shades of pink—holy crap, I realized I had the entire Easter rainbow lined up in my closet.

I dropped my head back and groaned. No wonder I was undateable.

“I could rearrange them,” I mused, lifting a handful of hangers off the rod and rehanging them in a different order.

I stood there for a full sixty seconds before the chaos overwhelmed me. “Now it looks like Easter threw up,” I said, correcting my mistake. Once they were back in the appropriate spots, I chose a blue one. Blue was good and manly even if it was
baby
blue. Besides, Tristan had seen this shirt before, and I wasn’t out to impress him. It was a casual beer, much like grabbing lunch with Mel.

I heard a knock and took one last look in the mirror before heading to answer it. I looked fine.

“Hey,” I greeted Tristan as I opened the door and stepped out onto the cement landing. My stomach did a little jig, but my nerves were much less active than when I’d been on dates.
This is a beer with my buddy
, I reminded myself.

“You look nice,” he commented as he opened the passenger door of his truck.

I glanced down as if I’d forgotten what I was wearing. His compliment threw me. “Um, thanks,” I said. Did straight men compliment their buddies? I’d never had straight male friends, other than Mel, so I shrugged it off as a possible maybe. Tristan had always been pleasant at the bank, so this was probably his nature.

Ironically, he was also wearing blue—a blue T-shirt that said something about a Dogfish Head. I would have to look that one up when I got home, because I wasn’t sure why heads of dogfish were appealing, or even if dogfish were real fish. For all I knew they could be mythical creatures like jackalopes.

“Are you hungry? I know I mainly suggested beer, but they do have good food.” Tristan turned onto Route 27 and glanced at me as he watched the road in front of us.

“Not really. I ate some leftover stew an hour ago.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. My sink decided to clog, and it took a few hours to take it apart and clean it. Then I had to put it all back together and make sure it didn’t leak. It was a whole ordeal, and by the time I was finished and showered, I was hungry. Besides, you said we were going out for a beer.”

“Yes, you’re right. That’s what I said.”

I didn’t understand why he sounded disappointed. I’d eaten because I’d been hungry an hour ago. This wasn’t a date, so I didn’t see the big deal.

“I noticed you’re wearing your glasses.”

“Um, yeah. My eyes were red this morning so I opted for the glasses. I probably look nerdy, but I hope that’s okay for a pub. I’ve never been to one.”

He chuckled. “Guys wear glasses in pubs, Grant. It’s not a parochial school with a dress code. You’re fine.”

Was he laughing
at
me or
with
me? I ignored it.

After parking in a garage next to a stone building, he said, “So you’ve never been to a pub before?”

“No.”

He locked the truck, and we walked side by side to the entrance and down a sidewalk next to the building. “Then I’m glad I picked this one. It’s nice. I’ve never seen drunken disorder or rowdiness except maybe on Saint Patrick’s Day.” He opened the door for me and I went inside.

THE EVENING
went better than I expected. We talked about some of his adventures in the Navy. He’d enlisted and been deployed shortly after his daughter had been born, and went to college for four years after he’d gotten out. Tristan said he didn’t regret being in the Navy, but he’d been grateful his father had asked him to take over the family business while he went to college because it had given him a valid excuse to change careers. He said, “Being away on a ship so often right after Claire was born just about killed me. I missed her a lot.”

He didn’t talk about his daughter’s mother, and I wasn’t sure why they weren’t together, but he did tell me he had Claire with him every other weekend and two weeks in the summer. He sounded pleased.

I also learned that he
loved
craft beers, and Dogfish Head was a brewery. I made a mental note.

“So, this was fun,” Tristan said as we walked out of the pub and headed to his truck. I was glad he’d picked me up, because I was feeling lightheaded even after the one beer.

“Yeah. I can’t say I’ve ever gone out drinking before.”

“I’d hardly call one beer drinking. It’s more like sampling.” We walked up the sidewalk toward the parking garage. I stumbled on an uneven part of the pavement, and Tristan grabbed my arm. “Whoa,” he said. “You okay? I guess one really is your limit, if you’re walking sideways.”

I snorted. “No. I’m fine. It’s that bit of sidewalk,” I said as I turned around and pointed.

“Okay there, soldier, anything you say,” he mocked. I don’t think he believed me.

We entered the lower level of the garage, and I glanced around. Nothing looked familiar. “Where’d you park?”

“Second level.”

“What’d you drive?”

“Blue Dodge Dakota. It’s this way.” He waved me to follow. “I can’t believe you’re this tipsy after one drink. I think next time we need to eat first.”

“I’m f-fiiine,” I slurred, exaggerating my speech on purpose.

He stopped, regarding me seriously. “You’re kidding, right?”

I smiled. “Of course I am. My head might feel a little woozy, but I’m not drunk.” I scoffed at the notion.

Tristan smiled. “Come on, you.” He rolled his eyes and pinched my sleeve, bidding me to follow. I’d probably follow him anywhere—he had a nice ass. We got in his truck, and Tristan backed out of the parking space.

I commented, “I had a great time. I kind of wish it didn’t have to end, but we both work tomorrow.”

He stopped at the light, looked my way, and smiled. I think he’d smiled the entire night. “Me too. But hey, we can do it again another time. I’d like to take you out on a
real
date. We could have dinner and maybe catch a movie.”

Maybe I
was
drunk, because it had sounded like he said date. “Wait… what?” I screwed up my eyes and stared at him across the seat.

“
What
, what? Do you not want to go?” he asked.

I was still confused. “Did you say you wanted to take me out to dinner?” Because that didn’t make any sense. My mind was all kinds of confuzzled.

Tristan turned onto Route 140 and answered, “Yes. I hardly call one drink and a calamari appetizer a date, so yeah, I want to take you out to dinner.”

I dropped my eyes to my clasped hands in my lap and mulled over what was happening. Tristan had asked me out.
On a date
. Another thought occurred to me, so I turned my attention back to him. “Was
this
a date?”

He gave me a weird look, then slowly pulled his truck to the side of the road and came to a stop. It wasn’t abrupt, but it did make me a little worried. I leaned closer to the door. When the truck was in park, he turned on the seat. “What did you think this was, Grant?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Two buddies having a beer.” My heart was racing. I squeezed my hands together as my only form of security. I didn’t understand what was going on. It was dark, and sitting on the side of the road made me a little scared. I estimated we were over eight miles from my house, so if he made me get out and walk, I’d have a long trek back.

His shoulders sagged, and he leaned against the door, resting one arm over the steering wheel. “Grant, I’ve been flirting with you for two weeks.”

“You have? When?” Rewinding our interactions, doing a mental assessment of everything we’d said to one another, I couldn’t remember where I’d gone off track.